At that moment he had a thought that he'd never imagine he'd consider.

"I could just cheat," he

thought, "and that would solve the problem." He tried to move on from the thought but it was
persistent. It didn't want to go away and, if he was honest with himself, he didn't want it to.
She reached her goal, exhausted. Even more chilling to her was that the euphoria that she
thought she'd feel upon reaching it wasn't there. Something wasn't right. Was this the only
feeling she'd have for over five years of hard work?
It was a rat's nest. Not a literal one, but that is what her hair seemed to resemble every morning
when she got up. It was going to take at least an hour to get it under control and she was sick
and tired of it. She peered into the mirror and wondered if it was worth it. It wasn't. She opened
the drawer and picked up the hair clippers.
He knew what he was supposed to do. That had been apparent from the beginning. That was
what made the choice so difficult. What he was supposed to do and what he would do were not
the same. This would have been fine if he were willing to face the inevitable consequences, but
he wasn't.
I'm meant to be writing at this moment. What I mean is, I'm meant to be writing something else
at this moment. The document I'm meant to be writing is, of course, open in another program on
my computer and is patiently awaiting my attention. Yet here I am plonking down senseless
sentiments in this paragraph because it's easier to do than to work on anything particularly
meaningful. I am grateful for the distraction.
There was little doubt that the bridge was unsafe. All one had to do was look at it to know that
with certainty. Yet Bob didn't see another option. He may have been able to work one out if he
had a bit of time to think things through, but time was something he didn't have. A choice
needed to be made, and it needed to be made quickly.